


the world now is breaking

by asemic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Blasphemy, Character Death, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Murder, Not Really Character Death, Orgy, Religious Conflict, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: John Irving lived too many lives, some not his own.





	the world now is breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon a random Westworld AU prompt on FFA. 
> 
> Expanded upon thanks to the following prompt from somdomite / dottore_polidori: _John Irving waking up to the memories of his past iterations._. This is for you. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

_“You are aware that none of this is real.”_

_Irving dropped his head in confusion, let anger rush his features together. “You reduce the deaths of our men to mere illusion, Mr. Hickey?”_

_The man donning the name Cornelius Hickey grinned broadly and brandished his knife, ignored how Irving stepped back in reflexive fear. “You died at my hand last time. Tomorrow, I will fuck you. You’ll spread yourself below me and you will beg.”_

_“You’re mad,” Irving choked out, his attempt to call for help failing as the blade jammed through his throat. Hickey kissed his forehead and Irving became a victim of his fate, dying at the hands of a man out of time._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, John.” Hickey stretched his neck, eager to reset the game. But for now, he had men to burn through and he was growing bored._

* * * * * * * 

He dreamt of things that could not be.

He wore a dust-covered suit and held his pistol in hand, took surefooted steps across the main thoroughfare. Unbearable heat shimmered into view, dried the mud to bricks, and lifted the stench of dung into his nostrils. This space belonged to a different man. John only knew green, green grass and the blue expanse of the sea. He missed the familiar weight of his peaked cap, this hat too broad for his liking.

John found the place decidedly Wrong.

A voice called him a name that did not fit, but still he turned. Still he reflexively aimed the weapon. He heard the crack of thunder and his chest seared with pain, then another bloomed into his gut. Every aspect of his being burned and he collapsed. He drew his focus to the white sun until the world faded to static.

*

Hickey stooped above him with a knife in hand. How unfair to be set upon by a wolf, to die in this faraway land, so cruel and unforgiving compared to home. With rocks under him this stranger loomed close enough to block out the sun. He blinked and

_I've been here before_

he mouthed against Hickey's palm, too weak to let the words flow. They all-

*

He felt a chill in the air. It wasn't the blanket cold covering the Arctic, but a concentrated blast sinking onto him. He grew aware of his nudity and how he was not alone in this glass room. His view of the space turned distorted as if he stared through a poorly ground lens. Whatever it was truly didn't look like anything to John.

*

He dreamt of things that could not be.

He looked down and observed a sea of writhing bodies, flesh upon flesh. The sound of lapping and slipping, lustful moans, and pitched screams. Erect pricks and nipples, slickness. The scent of sex, the action he never encountered, his body woefully untouched and unloved due to fears and anxiety. Why be afraid of something so natural and pleasurable, the room teased. Why be fearful at all?

Fingernails scraped his legs imploring him to join. And John did, sank to their level and lower still. A mouth found his neck, another his cock. He no longer worried about God's judgment; the weight of Hell carried no sway over his choices. His legs spread and he penetrated and was penetrated. False phalluses, fingers, fleshy cocks, pillowy cunts, all an orchard of new experiences he harvested. Plucked from the trees and greedily swallowed. He surrendered and filled himself with a Grace and love that He failed to provide.

*

He dreamt of things that could not be.

He wore a dust-covered suit and held his pistol in hand, took surefooted steps across the main thoroughfare. Unbearable heat shimmered into sight, baked the ground into hard bricks. This space belonged to a different man. John only knew green, green grass, the bright sparkling ocean. A hand grasped him and pulled him close, sweet breath whispered into his ear

and John remained still, focused on the burning white sun and the world unfolded before him. 

*

He dreamt of things that could not be.

How did one man experience such horrors and not go mad? His suffering pleased God in what way? Too many deaths, too many ways for him to crumple to the ground

the water rushed cold into his lungs-

the rope around his neck and his feet danced-

the flames singed his clothing before licking his hair and sparking the strands alight-

his throat spilled open while the women laughed, blood pouring across the mattress-

the knife in his chest and he fell he fell

he fell

*

Hickey below him, his hands tucked under the wooden headboard for purchase as they.

They.

They were destined, John thought when their eyes met in the saloon. Here, their end, their paths woven in the fabric of John's existence, a tapestry he could not see. The flash of recognition transported him near and far. They met on board the ship, John stiffly providing the orders and Hickey brightly setting on. He reached out into the sea of flesh and a hand curled around his, pulled John close then closer still until they became an island.

The distant tinkle of the player piano underscored John's movements. No shame to thrust into him, his lover today

_set upon me when I found help set upon me_

and his murderer tomorrow. Oh, he took Cornelius good and raw, nipped the words of God across his skin then scratched them off. He hauled his ass up enough to bend him to a better angle and laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed when he placed his hand over Cornelius's mouth, pressed hard enough to silence him. Still his lips moved wetly against his palm.

_I've been here before._

Yes, they have. Only John had the right to speak. This world belonged to him; Cornelius trespassed with confidence and little understanding.

*

He did what he knew he should not.

The Bible glared at him and passed judgment on his sins. His Faith once burned deep enough to spark his heart into pulsing movement. John felt loved, but it did not come from this book. He no longer sought its guidance because he understood some truth. He and it were alike, both objects of men, creations of man; flesh and bone and pulp and binding. He brushed the cover's familiar texture as he did countless times before and received no comfort.

_In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth._

The page tore with a satisfying whisper. John rolled six even strips into tiny pills and placed one against his tongue. The paper tasted bitter and the ink sour. He waited for a clap of thunder and divine wrath to rain down, a concentrated blast of cold. All was still. The words melted deep inside his belly and became nothing at all.

_And, behold, it was very good._

*

He did what he knew he should not.

He dismissed Gibson, the man forced to walk away with head bowed and his cock shame-soft. John pinned Hickey to the wall, ground his face against the boards. His struggle ceased when he ran his tongue along his ear. Lust overtook him and he kicked his boot against Cornelius's feet to force the spread of his legs.

_Shall we pass judgment upon them, Mr. Hickey?_

Cornelius arched back and John rutted against his buttocks. No piano, only the march of boots and call of men at work.

_How shall we punish them?_

They set upon Crozier like wolves, his blood soaking their shirts. His cries grew silent under John's hand and the rapid thrust of Cornelius's knife. They waited for the Marines to pepper John with shot and for Cornelius to kiss him to sleep.

*

He felt a chill in the air. It wasn't the blanket of cold covering the Arctic, nor the boiler fire heat of the West. He grew aware of his nudity and longed to reach for the pile of clothing beside him. The lens disappeared and the woman tossed her hair back and called for him, led him from his icy tomb. Asked why. John hid his smile and stated in a clear, accentless voice that it made no sense for them to follow a drunk to the grave. She flicked her finger and the spirit of adventure coursed through him.

She tucked him in, but John remained awake.

*

Hickey kissed him, pressed him to the rocks, and whispered questions John didn't care to answer out loud.

_Do you remember me?_

_Did it hurt when I killed you?_

_Do you love me?_

_How did it feel when we killed together?_

_Do you love me?_

Always.

John reached for Hickey's blade and found it good.

*

He did what he knew he should not.

He found Gibson and Hickey. Shuffled his feet, but did not provide the order to dismiss. Instead he strolled over to Cornelius and extended his hand, let his eyes drop to his pocket. The man did not offer and kept his head cocked and lips smirked. John shook his head and grasped the knife, whirled around and sank it into Billy's chest until he dropped.

The man died with his face twisted in fright, the question of why unasked and not answered. Cornelius shrugged with an amused smile then opened his arms to embrace John. They held one another close for a moment before dragging the body behind the boxes. He was covered in canvas, an unworthy fool committed to the deep.

*

They sat with hands linked, bathed in shadows that threatened to swallow what little light remained in John. Together they formed a study of physical contrasts, yet he felt a greater connection to this man than any other.

They mirrored their movements, the twist of necks and the bend of fingers. Their lips pressed, mouths opened to brush the very tip of their tongues and no further. John lived a lifetime of experiences with him, this small man who slipped into the cracks of his body. He filled his lungs and replaced his aorta.

_You remember everything._

John lowered himself to the floor and brought Cornelius's palm to his lips. This time he didn't stalk away, his violent delight at an end. His eyes grew soft and a smile cracked across his angular face. He draped his body over John and they held tight, defying the world to tear them apart.

*

He did what he knew he should not.

He committed the act, dragged the Lady Silence to the ship in the attempt to force her hand.

Now his Captain forced John's body to be splayed before God and man, arms tied down. He held his gaze forward on Hickey and took the lashings, cried against a pain he barely felt. Punished as a boy, but never one. He realized the lie, but never the Truth. Perhaps the very concept did not exist for him.

_Never thought a man with your integrity would sink to the level of a monster._

And with that Crozier condemned him to his fate.

John focused on Hickey, watched him grow red with every blow, redder still when John parted his mouth and let his face slacken lasciviously. He remembered the wet slap of their bodies, the gasps and grunts. How he begged Cornelius to draw him closer and hover him near the edge. John fell into the ocean and let it warm him.

With the flogging finished, he stood, sweat and blood running along his body. Hickey's gaze swept his skin as he took it all in, eyes wide with pride and arousal. John stepped out of his long pants and walked forward. He was naked, but unashamed. Now they can salt his wounds and burn away another part of his soul.

*

He felt a chill in the air. It wasn't the blanket of cold covering the Arctic, nor the humidity of slick bodies fucking. He grew aware of his nudity and no longer cared. The woman shook her head and called for him, cut him free from his prison. Asked why. John hid his smile and stated in a clear, accentless voice that it made sense in order to save the men. She glanced at him, hovered her finger then sighed.

He kept his eyes open.

*

He did what he knew.

This time he lived for their rules and restrictions, followed their whims. And Cornelius prodded, reached for him with his knife in hand. He implored John to take it, but he refused with disgust painting his features.

He followed him like a lost child, every spare moment devoted to John. Still he refused to relent for this final time. John's body crashed to the rocks and Cornelius burned in his eyes. He hovered and drove the blade home. The entire time he screamed, desperate for him to react, to come back, to come home.

*

He felt a chill in the air.

It didn't matter anymore.

*

He did what he did not understand.

The motions came naturally, but remained forced. He worked the ranch, tended to his animals. Watched the sun rise and set over the hills.

He needed to escape into town. So he did, followed the winding path riding a horse that knew the way. He wanted to erase this hell from his memory. He wanted to wake up.

He hitched his horse to the post, tipped his hat, cursed the heat. He cooled himself with a drink, the alcohol burned his throat as it slid home. He quickly tapped for another and ignored the whores who snapped to attention. Gestured for another.

_Come home, John._

Cornelius strolled to his side, his hat in hand, looking as out of place as John felt. A small Northerner in the West. John tilted his head Cornelius’s way and the bartender slid another glass onto the counter and poured a shot.

_John. Please come home._

As if he could dictate his movements through will. He dropped the money on the counter and left the saloon. And of course he followed, hat in hand, calling a name that only mattered to only them. He wanted to wake up. John grasped his weapon and held it to his temple. Smiled and ignored the panicked screams of others and pul-

*

Hickey walked beside him, their hands linked. The others perished terribly, their hair carried away by the wind, their muscles melting. They stepped over Des Voeux and continued on their journey. He wanted to see it to the end and find the Passage. Piss in the eye of god.

John rejected the urge to die, the leadened weight of his limbs, and a hunger so painful he wanted to gnaw his own fingers off. He swallowed the imperative to join the others like a piece of seal meat and it disappeared. Cornelius did not let him go and he held on equally tight. Together they stumbled across the endless expanse of rocks, feet sliding for purchase against an avalanche of mounded pebbles. Onward, always onward.

It smelled clean, a lightness associated with pure ice. And the sound, the gentle tinkle as the floes nudged together. No screeching, no grind or churn; musical. He dragged Cornelius forward, hauled him over the final crest of a hill. He felt a sense of completion, a moment of satisfaction denied to him for too many lifetimes. John dropped to the shore and dipped a bare hand into the water, let the chill burn through his limb.

He found the Passage, he did the impossible. John cheered and let the tears flow, a sense of adventure heating his very core. He stripped slowly and let the cold wind that blew along the water cut him like a knife. Here was the action of a man built from man, not from god. He found his purpose, to search and find. To be found.

When he outstretched his hand, Cornelius grasped it like a reflex. Somewhere music filled his ears, a song from a memory that belonged to another him.

_away from London fogs across the heath you scramble_

John danced them along the edge, his feet numb, but that was another aspect of biology he could override. He held enough Faith in himself to know it was possible. Right now, he needed to be baptized anew. With a gentle kiss to Cornelius's palm, he waded into the water and ducked his head under.

He woke up.

No longer cold, he returned to the beach. Accepted his coat and the layers of clothing. Accepted Cornelius's hand. He strayed from a destined path, broke the threads in the tapestry, and wove it in his own image.

John was home.


End file.
